Cat Person
by SassyJ
Summary: Reese finds a new little friend.
1. Chapter 1

The sunlight spilling in through the huge windows plays across the bed. John stretches a little, arching his back. He's naked beneath the soft quilt, he moves carefully enjoying the sensation of high thread-count Egyptian cotton which envelopes his body.

She doesn't move, she's curled under his chin, resting against his chest. He can feel her purr vibrating through her body and into his. His hand comes up and curves around her neatly curled up body. She stays in place but turns over, presenting her soft belly fur for his fingers to rub. The purring gets louder.

He rubs her soft coat, time was she fit into his hand and into his pocket, she's always been neat and self-contained _not like Bear, all legs and angles_ John smiles to himself.

But she's a big girl now. Fully grown.

He'd never really thought of himself as a cat person before. Until that day.

Pouring rain. The one thing that New York excelled at, more perhaps than anything else, rain that came down with such force that it rebounded on the pavement and came back up to soak you a second time. He was drenched, hurrying, the latest number was tucked up safe and sound, he'd dropped the appropriate care package off outside the 8th. He was headed for a sencha green tea, and a good coffee, and probably some muffins, followed by a dry set of clothes.

The pavement was slick, soaking wet, and even though he was normally as sure-footed as a mountain goat, he slipped as he rounded the corner. He went down on one knee, hard into the pavement, the jolt was excruciating. He stayed down for a second, fighting the pain that swam through his senses and cursing the mis-step that had brought him to this pass. He was about to get to his feet when he heard it.

_Waaaah!_

It was a quiet, almost apologetic little squeak. If he had been standing up he never would have heard it. He turned his head and peered under the parked car. A pair of frightened blue eyes peered at him down a long, patrician nose.

_Waaaah!_

Ignoring the pain in his battered knee, John stretched out his hand, and the kitten moved a little closer. He kept very still, ignoring the pouring rain and his throbbing knee, tentatively the little nose touched his hand.

The little nose nudged his hand gently a couple of times, then a tiny pink tongue lapped at his fingers, he was starting to shiver with how cold he was, and his knee was still throbbing but he kept still. Finally the little triangular head slipped beneath his hand, and the kitten began to purr.

He turned his hand then, ever so slowly and lifted the kitten. Easing himself to his feet, with a muttered curse at the painful throbbing increasing in his knee, he cradled the kitten in his hand.

The poor little thing was getting soaked, he pulled his coat and jacket aside and placed the kitten against his chest, pulling the coats back over, the tiny creature was sheltered there a little from the elements. The purring increased.

He ran then. Forgetting coffee and tea and sweet things, and the pain in his knee. He had to get back to the library and get the little one dried off and find him some food and water.

[][][][][][][][]

Finch stares at the funny little scrap that John carefully lifts out of his drenched coat and jacket. Small, skinny, damp and grubby she may be, but even he who is not a particular fan of cats can recognize her patrician breeding.

John places her on the desk in front of Finch. She circles, sniffing this strange new environment, keeping an eye on the large lean thing that is eyeing her with a mixture of confusion and disgust.

"I found him under a car. He seemed lonely."

"Well, firstly Mr Reese, he is a She. A very particular She. She is a Siamese."

Quite where Finch has learnt how to sex a kitten, and is familiar with breeds of cats Reese isn't sure. But he's hardly surprised. Under-estimating his employer's ability to do anything is something he learned to get over a long time ago.

Reese picks her up, and she settles in his hands, purring. She's delicate and pretty, now that her fur is a little drier, he can see her chocolate brown points, and the cream fur that is her body.

He lifts her up, studying her, and she reaches a long, dainty paw out and pats him on the cheek.

Finch sighs. He should be annoyed. But somehow he can't be. John is John, the man has a big heart and it is no surprise that in a rainstorm and a matter of a few blocks, he has somehow found something small and defenseless to save.

"Does she have a name?" He asks. He has survived the addition of a large book-eating hound, he's sure he can cope with a kitten.

It's on the tip of John's tongue to call her Jessica, after his long dead love. But that doesn't seem to fit. She is already her own personality. "Ming." He says, after some thought.

Finch nods. It seems appropriate.

Bear watches them. Alpha brings in this strange small thing. He moves a little closer, puts his nose up for a sniff.

Quick as a flash her paw shoots out, and slaps him on the nose. Bear yelps in surprise, and then looks sheepish, something so tiny and ridiculous cannot get the better of him.

John puts her down, and ruffles Bear's fur. The Mallinois leans into his Alpha and sighs. The funny small thing has sharp edges.

[][][][][][][][]

Ming grows fast. Alongside the Doggy Danishes are cat treats of high quality, although they establish pretty quickly that her preferred options are chicken and cheese. With the dog toys come cat toys. Small bouncing balls, things with feathers…

The competition begins with the rooster dog toy. Expensive, from an upmarket dog store. John buys it one afternoon, and Finch performs emergency squeaky surgery on it by nightfall. Bear being a dog of strong fixations.

Finch goes out for a tea one afternoon, and returns to find Reese sitting in his customary chair watching the animals with amusement. Bear is on his bed, looking particularly unhappy.

Ming is lying a few feet away, rooster clutched to her chest with her front paws, she has her teeth in its neck and is watching Bear and growling to herself as she batters rooster with her hind feet.

Bear raises his head at Finch's approach, then turns his face away from the spectacle and drops his nose on his paws.

Finch sighs. He can see Bear's point of view. He's learned that taking rooster away from Ming will not be easy. Dog's have owners, cats have staff. The only person that Ming pays any attention to is Reese.

Ming always goes home with Reese.


	2. Chapter 2

Joss Carter knocks on the door. She knows John is recuperating from a very nasty encounter with a bullet to his left thigh, and a burn on his forearm sustained in an escape from the trunk of another burning car.

Finch answers. "Detective Carter." He smiles a little, she can't help but contrast this greeting with the last time John was laid up with a gunshot wound. "Come in." He steps back. "Mr Reese is sleeping at the moment. The kitchen is well stocked, and I should be back in three hours."

Joss smiles back, "we'll be fine." She tries to reassure his nervy fussiness, even though she's pretty certain that this is part of the man himself.

He shrugs himself into an overcoat, she can't help noticing the beautifully cut, expensive cloth, his little indulgences are something that tickles her funny bone.

He turns back by the door. "Thank you for giving up your day off."

"My pleasure."

He pulls the door open and leaves. He's almost to the elevator when he wonders if he should have mentioned… He shakes his head, _no_, Detective Carter is a mature, experienced, intelligent woman, that would almost be insulting.

Joss moves over to the big bed, John's asleep, on his side, his bandaged forearm resting on top of the quilt. He looks a little pale, the livid scarlet scrape on his cheek standing out in contrast to his pallor. Joss reaches out a hand to smooth the sheet over him.

The growl startles her and she snatches her hand back, glancing around, Bear's bed is there, but it's empty so she assumes he's with Finch.

A head pops up to peer at her over John's shoulder, the blue-eyed stare is fierce and protective and Joss has to catch back a bark of laughter. She had never really thought of John as a cat person. Obviously this is a mistake. The Siamese is pinning her with a glare from her huddled position under John's chin.

Joss moves around to take the soft chair that Finch has set up next to John's bed. There's a book on the table, next to the chair, and she picks it up. _Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats_, it looks old, she guesses that it's a first edition. Finch obviously has something of a sense of humor when it comes to John's cat.

The cat has turned round, still curled up against John's chest, under his chin. She rubs her cheek gently against his throat, purring loudly, but keeping a suspicious eye on Joss. Joss has the distinct feeling that she's being judged, and not favorably. She would like to stretch her hand out and touch him, reassure herself that he is alive, but she has the feeling that the cat is not going to allow this.

_This is stupid_, she tells herself. _It's a cat. Just a cat._ She reaches out.

_HAAAAAAAAAA_, the Siamese is really quick. She's in a defensive posture, ears back, mouth wide open, an impressive set of fangs bared, paw raised.

Joss recoils.

"Dammit, Kitty." Joss tries to placate the angry cat. "I'm not going to hurt him."

"Ming."

Joss almost jumps. "John."

Tired blue eyes glance up at her, he smiles, but she can sense it's an effort. He's really hurting, and she takes a second to feel relief that she did not have a hand in this one.

John's uninjured hand has curled around his cat, and she's cuddled tight against his chest, casting venomous glances in Joss' direction, all the while purring like a motor against John and rubbing her cheek up against his neck and chin.

Joss stretches her hand out again and gently lays it on his arm. Ming moves again, and her ears go back, "Ming, play nice." John says. The Siamese settles back into her preferred place, purring loudly, there's something almost defiant in the look she throws at Joss.

It would be funny but Joss is fairly certain that the Siamese is just waiting her chance to scratch.

"Do you need anything?" she asks quietly.

He shakes his head a little, the cat has now rolled over, and is presenting her belly for John's hand to stroke through her soft fur. Joss watches John's big hand and long fingers gently digging into the Siamese's thick soft belly fur. Ming's on her back, her head pressed up against the underside of John's chin. She's purring up a storm.

It's such a charming image that Joss feels quite teary for a moment. Clearly it's a two-way thing too, John seems to derive as much benefit from Ming's affection as she does.

He's watching Joss beneath the long sweep of eyelashes. "Read it." He says, his voice so low she can barely hear. Joss figures that she's not much of a reader out loud, but he's hurting and if it distracts him it's not a bad idea. So she picks up the book and begins to read the poems.

[][][][][][][][]

She's startled by the sound of a key in a lock, and pulls herself together when she realizes it is Finch returning. John seems to have drifted back to sleep again, his fingers laced in Ming's fur. The Siamese has a smug look on her face and Joss concedes that the possessive cat has definitely won this round.

She gets to her feet, placing the book on the table, as a patter of claws on wood flooring alerts her to the presence of Bear. The dog greets her then heads to the bed, climbing on to it and sinking down to lie next to John on the other side. The triangular head pops up over John's shoulder as the Siamese gives the Mallinois her very own version of the stink-eye.

Bear glances at the cat, and then sinks down. It's plain to Joss that the dog might be military trained, and ten times the size of the cat, but that he's met his match in the somewhat vengeful feline. Ming keeps watching him a beat or two longer, before she resumes her position against John's chest.

Joss greets Finch and updates him, not that there is much to actually update him on, or that he didn't already know. She gets ready to go, then pauses, she knows she is going to hate herself for asking. "Why Ming? I get the Chinese dynasty and so on, but…" she shrugs helplessly.

Finch's tone is a little dry. "Oh I rather think that Mr Reese had entirely another Ming in mind…"

Joss frowns.

"Flash Gordon… Ming the Merciless." Finch gives the cat a stare, "dogs have boundaries… cats…" he trails off, but Joss gets the gist.

"Cats are laws unto themselves." She mutters as she leaves.


	3. Chapter 3

She is sneaky and whip-smart. John has known this almost from the moment this tiny creature crept into his hand and his heart. Though this particular display of her natural cunning he could well have done without.

There are six mewling scraps of fur in the cat carrier, all clinging to Momma and suckling their hearts out. Three of them are black, and three carry Momma's coat pattern, with some curiously tabby looking stripes, all of them lack her long patrician nose, although the Siamese-coats have inherited her blue eyes.

Finch has that _please stop_ look on his face again. Although what he thinks John can do about this is a mystery.

Shaw's contribution to this _crisis_ is "kittens… cute…" and then she ignores them entirely in favor of her mission to rescue an idiot, who for once is not Leon, from the consequences of not being quite smart enough to take on the Russian mafia and steal their money.

It will be noisy, messy and she will get to fire a big gun; which John supposes suits her down to the ground. Shaw is not in any way fluffy.

John sighs and sets the carrier down, lifting off the top, Ming's expression can only be described as smug. John rubs his temple with a forefinger and thinks _Ming six, Reese zero._ He resolves to get up early to try and figure out how she got out, because he's certain that no enterprising Tom managed to get in.

Being outsmarted by a cat is just a little too much to take.

Despite his irritation, he has to admit that they are damn cute, and Ming is a good mother. Three years ago his life was a mess heading to an ignominious end, and now he had friends, a life, a purpose, an apartment, a dog and a devious cat.

And, _just maybe_, a little something-something… A pair of sparkling brown eyes, and some long, loose, artfully tossed golden brown curls springs to mind, together with a lean dancer's body…

He rubbed Ming's head gently, and she purred up at him. "Yeah… you did good."

He can actually see the boundaries of her particular bubble of smugness increase.

[][][][][][][][]

The kittens grow, and John manages to find homes for five of them, leaving him with Ming and her son… Piewacket. Zoe names him, one evening, when they have some down time from the numbers and Zoe is at Reese's apartment for a night cap, that they are well aware is going to turn into breakfast.

Ming is on the back of the sofa. Zoe is a couple of feet away, and they are eyeing each other. John has to hide his amusement. The ladies would not appreciate it.

Apparently, that thing between them is really primal. As a mere male, his job is to just carry on regardless.

Chubby no-name Siamese-coat kitten walks up to Zoe. He's round and sleek, because Ming is still producing milk, and there is no longer any competition at the milk bar. He's almost fourteen weeks. Zoe picks him up and he purrs at her.

An image of Kim Novak pops into her head. "Piewacket." Zoe says.

"Pie-a-what?" says John, even though he has a vague idea where that came from.

"Piewacket." Zoe waves her hand. "You know… Jimmy Stewart, Kim Novak. Bell, Book and Candle."

"Piewacket." John scoops the kitten up in one hand, peering closely at him. "you like that?"

The kitten yawns, and the name sticks.

[][][][][][][][]

Several fruitless searches and John still can't figure out how she's getting out. Finch has made a second appointment, and it's the second time that John has come back from the vet's with a full cat carrier and Ming with this inscrutable expression on her face that drives John slightly crazy.

Finch is wearing that look again.

The second litter is four. All black. Ming is all smug again, and John is wondering how he is going to be able to find homes for them, it stretched his ingenuity the last time.

Ming's triumph knows no bounds. Her new brood are as active as the first litter. She seems more careless in her resting places as Finch is quick to point out. Finch's keyboards are unsuitable for inappropriate use.

John opens his mouth to defend his pet, and closes it again. It's difficult to articulate a measured and coherent response when one's cat has chosen to suckle her young, and her half grown son while reclining across Finch's main key board, _like the Rokeby Venus._

It takes John twenty minutes to track down a representation of the aforementioned painting in a book.

Pie is six months old, and huge, he practically elbows his smaller, younger brethren out of the way. He's larger than his mother by now.

Finch stares at this scene of unbridled, inappropriate suckling and his eyebrows attempt to disappear into his hairline and his lips purse in a way that John hasn't seen since they first began working together.

Finch is pissed.

It takes many trips with sencha green tea, the bran muffins that Finch loves, the wickedly expensive French desserts from the tiny little bakery that John discovers in the Village, and numerous other offerings before his boss is suitably mollified.

Hell, John would have bought him another Asimov first edition if he had thought it would ease the situation.

[][][][][][][][]

He manages to find new homes for the four kittens, and whips Ming and Pie into the vet's before any more trouble occurs.

In between numbers and getting his cuts and bruises seen to after a particularly trying case, John collects his cats from the vet.

Pie doesn't seem to notice or care. He rubs his head against Reese's trouser leg, purring happily and then heads in the direction of his food bowl in hopes of something tasty.

Ming jumps up on the coffee table in front of the sofa that John sinks down onto. It's been a hard day.

It's about to get harder.

Crouched on the table, with her tail curled around her, she pins him with a gaze. Blue eyes glint like steel. When she is sure he has got the message, she gets to her feet and turns her back on him.

John sighs. Ming is pissed.

He has some diced chicken in the fridge. It was supposed to be for his dinner, and there's a camembert in there too, which he doesn't remember purchasing but is fairly sure that Finch might have. Ming is partial to the soft French cheese.

He cooks the chicken, cuts half the cheese into small pieces and attempts to placate his angry lady.

She's sniffy and huffy at first. It's the camembert that wins her over, chicken after all is just chicken, but the camembert comes from one of the best delis, and is real, imported French cheese.

She's on his lap, leaning against his stomach, and he's feeding her expensive cheese, while ignoring the growling of his own stomach which says he hasn't eaten in at least seventeen hours.

He sighs. This is who he is. Staff to an imperious and demanding Siamese.


	4. Chapter 4

Finch notices that Ming likes to sit on the edge of his desk and watch the screens. She seems to recognize John, she purrs whenever she sees him on screen. Sometimes Finch isn't even sure that it is John on the screen, but Ming always seems to know him.

She also has an instinct for the bad guy.

The first time she growls and hisses at a picture on the board, Finch is ready to dismiss this display of petulance as Ming's natural personality. But he has cause to remember this behaviour later when John drops the dime on this number allowing Carter and Fusco to move in and take a very dangerous man off the streets.

It keeps happening. Ming looks at a picture and purrs. Or hisses. Finch quietly mathematically calculates the probability of a cat being right every time, decides that this is statistically unlikely, but so far the Siamese is returning a rate of ninety-five percent.

It appears that once her mind is made up, she doesn't change it.

[][][][][][][][]

Finch starts to anticipate Ming's reactions to their numbers, which is why he's startled when she stays quiet one day. Finch turns to look at the cat when he puts the picture up on the board, and Ming does not react.

She sits on the desk and stares at the picture instead. She has an expressive face. She is trying to work it out.

Her expression gives him a funny feeling inside.

Finch shrugs it off. However perceptive Ming may be, she is still just a cat. An animal. She cannot possibly divine the meanings behind every aspect of human behaviour.

Hours later he has cause to regret his hasty dismissal of her unusual behaviour.

[][][][][][][][]

It's bad. As he works to put in place the things his operative will need, Finch wishes he had obeyed that funny feeling.

John saved the number, but at a cost that may bring to end their work together.

The fall was from quite a height. He landed in a dumpster, hitting his head, as if the fall were not enough to render him unconscious. Broken arm, broken ribs, broken leg, concussion, cuts and bruises all over his body.

His injuries are extensive. Finch and Reese are not alone anymore, they have friends, and support. None of this lessens Finch's fear.

By the time John is settled in the finest hospital bed that money can buy, with a round the clock team caring for him, Finch realizes that Bear and John's cats need to see him.

There is nothing quite like building a hospital wing or two to give you carte blanche. And there is a very private entrance for VIPs.

Harold arrives at John's bedside with Bear and the cats. Bear gently nudges John's hand with his nose, licks his fingers and whimpers a little. Pie curls up near John's uninjured leg and apparently goes to sleep.

Ming carefully weaves her way under the wires and tubes that are monitoring John's vital signs, and sinks down into the curve of his neck and shoulder, her nose resting on his throat. She begins to purr. Unlike her usual purr which is something of a jet engine and could rattle windows in their frames, this purr is soft and gentle. Harold realizes that she is trying to coax John into wakefulness.

He sits down in the visitor's chair and observes them and John. Finch doesn't quite know what he will find but it seems that this is the thing to do. Pie remains sleeping against John's uninjured ankle, purring peacefully. From time to time Bear gets up from his curled position at John's side to gently nudge John's hand with his nose and Ming stays exactly where she is.

When it becomes time to leave, Bear moves reluctantly, but obediently, away from the bed. Harold picks Pie up, noting that the young cat must be supplementing his diet somewhere because Pie is heavier than ever.

Ming refuses to leave. She sinks down in small ball curled tight into John's neck. Harold has his doubts that she really will strike at him even though her mouth is open wide in an aggravated hiss and her paw is ready to rake his hand. As he reaches out again in an attempt to remove her, John moves. A low moan escapes his lips, and he turns his cheek to rest against her side.

Ming's expression then is both smug and triumphant, and Harold falters. For a brief and thoroughly insane second he is jealous of a cat.

He swallows his pride. After all it hardly matters how John wakes up, only that he does. "John." He says softly.

Reese's head turns slowly on the pillow, and Harold is rewarded by a glimpse of cerulean blue as the big ex-soldier's eyes open a little. Reese tries to lick his lips, and Harold hastens to move the water glass and straw so that Reese can take a drink.

"Harold." Reese's voice is quiet, shaky and Finch can hear the frisson of pain curling at the edges of the word.

"John, are you in pain?"

Reese almost goes to nod, and thinks better of it. "Hurts." He mutters thickly.

Everything hurts. He hasn't broken a bone since he was a teenager, the pain that's travelling up and down his right side is hard to bank down.

Ming seems to sense how much he is hurting, she snuggles closer to his cheek, her purr is soft and soothing. Finch gives up trying to move her, informing the staff that John's cat will be staying.

[][][][][][][][]

As he reviews what went wrong, and how John was injured, Finch can't help a feeling of annoyance. Since Carter's terrible mistake with the CIA, he had rather hoped that the detective had stopped taking so much at face value. Sometimes she really does not understand that she is being manipulated.

Coupled with Miz Morgan's fix it job for their number, and John was caught in a pincher action which put him in harm's way trying to save the lives of the two women.

Finch knows that his fury is irrational, there was no way that Carter could have known that her devious confidential informant was the actual perpetrator, as Miz Morgan could not have known that the information she was supplying would enable Frank diSalvo to dispose of a rival. The only loose ends would then be Carter who he had persuaded to help him go into hiding, and Zoe who he had hired to do a job.

John's hasty intervention had given Fusco time to get the drop on diSalvo, and shoot him.

A fall from a third story window should have killed John. The full dumpster, and its contents had saved his life.

Finch wishes that he could prevent these near misses. John's body has been through enough.

[][][][][][][][]

It's late, and Joss should be on her way home, but she wanted to stop by the hospital again. She hadn't seen John since they carted him out of the dumpster strapped to a stretcher. She had gone to the hospital later in the day, but he was still unconscious.

She had thanked Fusco for saving her life, but John had more than risked his to save her. From the consequences of her own actions. For the second time.

Maybe she did have trust issues. She placed her trust in things that she should have been able to rely on, and she had been proved wrong. Not once but several times.

The room lights are dim as she enters, presumably so the patient could get some sleep. She approaches the bed slowly as the lump grows in her throat. She never saw John recovering from the gunshot wounds he received from the CIA. She's seen him banged up, scorched by fire, covered in cuts, but this…

His right arm and leg are in casts, she can't see his ribs but she guesses they're strapped up, his face is bruised and scraped and there are stitches on his forehead. He looks pale, lines of pain show on his face and she sinks into the chair positioned by his bed feeling more guilty than she has in a long time.

John is a lot of things, but he's saved her life, and her son's life and she owes him.

She moves a little closer then, to take his hand.

The growl is unexpected and Joss almost jumps, until she spots the dark shape on the pillow by John's neck.

The Siamese stretches. Long, lean chocolate furred legs pick their way delicately down the bed until the cat insinuates herself between Joss and John's hand.

Joss very nearly laughs. She is being judged again by John's cat.

"I'm not going to hurt him Ming." She can't believe she's actually talking to his cat. "I just want to see he's alright."

Ming sniffed. Joss could sense the sarcasm in the sound. Even if she doubted cats were capable of sarcasm, the cold look that the Siamese shot her as she stretched her length between John's hand and the edge of the bed, meaning Joss would have to reach around her to take hold of John's hand, that look said it all.

It was hard, but perhaps this time Joss had done something to earn Ming's condemnation. John was hurt because of her. The cat was just looking out for her beloved owner.

_This is ridiculous, she's just a cat._

Joss tentatively reached out. Ming growled, and the tip of her chocolate brown tail twitched, idly, all perfect huntress coiled and ready.

"Dammit." Joss hissed back.

John moved, a very little, smiled in his sleep, and Joss settled back in her seat.

Damn cat.


	5. Chapter 5

Reese is bored out of his mind. His arm and ribs have healed nicely, even the small scar on his forehead is starting to fade… And that's where the good ends. His right leg is still in a cast.

He has crutches, but they're a concession. He's supposed to stay off the crutches, and off the leg in general. So he's either in bed, on the sofa, or parked in the wheelchair. With the cushion.

He's grumpily grateful for the cushion, he seriously doubts his ass has had this much work out in his forty-four years on the planet.

He's cleaned every weapon in his closet at least four times. He's banished donuts and sweet things, if he puts on any weight while stuck like this it's gonna take too much hard work to shift it. He's not twenty-one anymore.

He would love to take a shower. But that involves a series of complicated maneuvers, a bin bag or saran wrap and Finch or Fusco to make sure he doesn't fall over. It's mildly humiliating and however badly he wants to stand under the running water, he's relieved that this particular humiliation is over for the day.

There's an itch that has started up somewhere just above his right knee. As the cast goes to the top of his thigh he can't reach the itch, there is nothing that he can do to relieve it and it's making him so crazy…

Ming leaps noiselessly from the ground and lands gently in his lap. Rubbing her cheek against his chest she leans into him. The sweet look on her face makes him smile, "hey girl…"

She starts to purr, it's that soft, gentle purr that she reserves only for him. It's the sound that he woke up to after the fall. He's sure that anyone would say that it's fanciful to talk of a cat's healing purr, but he knows the feeling of well-being that spreads through his body when she does it.

He curls a large hand around her slender body, and she settles happily, still purring as she licks his thumb. He starts to feel more rested. If only the damn itch would stop.

[][][][][][][][]

Zoe makes her way to John's apartment. She's still feeling a little guilty over John's fall. Which she should, according to Harold. Although Harold has chosen to convey this in terms of short terse silences and meaningful looks rather than anything so vulgar as scolding.

So Zoe is armored with a light picnic for two with no wine for John, and a chess board, all packed up in an attractive wicker picnic basket and a neatly wrapped piece offering that is part joke, part hope that it might be of practical use.

Harold has given her the key, but she knocks first anyway. No sense is startling John, especially as even if he is stuck in a wheelchair with his leg in a cast, she very much doubts he's unarmed.

He's sitting over in the suntrap created by the big corner window, his smile is warm and welcoming enough, clearly he doesn't blame her for his misfortune.

"Zoe." She can hear the sultry warmth in his tone. _Definitely not blaming her_. And there's a look in his eyes that Zoe is 99% certain he cannot act on in his current condition.

"John." She plays it a little cool, not wanting to start any fires that they won't be able to put out. "I brought lunch." She holds up the picnic basket. "And this…" she hands him the packet.

It's really long and thin, the parcel she hands him, he has an idea what it is as he unwraps it quickly. A thin pole, with three tines on the end, like a sort of bent Neptune's trident… John smiles. He's dressed in crumpled khakis with the seam split up the side to accommodate his cast. There's enough gap at the top of the split to ease his new toy down inside the cast and reach the infernal itch.

Zoe pauses from laying the coffee table to watch, amused, as the expression on his face briefly reaches a stage that she would describe as bliss. Clearly scratching the itch was the right thing to do.

Zoe wants to kiss him. Almost desperately. Just the memory of John's broken, battered body being carted away by ambulance still tightens her gut and makes her feel ever so slightly dizzy.

Ming is curled in his lap. Eyes half-closed, purring peacefully. Zoe isn't fooled for a minute. She had reached a sort of armed neutrality with John's defensive feline, testing the ground now might yield some very nasty results.

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They linger over the sumptuous picnic that Zoe has put together, fresh zesty salad, delicious chili-glazed poached salmon, and a cheese board.

Zoe moves the cheese a little closer as John chases the last of the salad around his plate with a fork. He's eating one handed, his other hand still in Ming's fur. Zoe could swear that Ming's purr has changed tenor from sentimental and loving to smug.

Ming's whole being is radiating smug. From time to time during their appetizer and the main course, the Siamese's blue eyes have half opened, and she has shot Zoe a look.

Zoe knows that look so well. It's triumph.

She serves their coffee, and lays out the crackers for the cheese, gently pushing the board within John's reach.

John surveys the cheeses that Zoe has selected, recognizing the labels on some which proclaim them to be from the Deli where Finch buys his cheese.

"Camembert." John grins and swiftly slices the cheese in half, "and I'll take some of the Dolcelatte, and the Petit Basque." He cuts some of each cheese and puts them on his plate

Zoe piles some crackers on his plate, John's cutting the camembert up into small pieces. He picks up a piece. Ming yawns, all fangs and tongue, and stretches out. She reaches, and delicately nips the piece of cheese from John's fingers, chewing with obvious enjoyment.

Zoe is really trying hard not to feel too put out. By a Siamese.

She tries very hard to pretend that this is a perfectly normal conversation, a perfectly normal meal, and she doesn't mind in the slightest that she is being bested by a cat.

John smiles to himself. He's always admired Zoe, from her sass to her feline grace, it wasn't her fault what happened, and he keeps trying to tell her that.

Ming delicately nips the soft, fragrant cheese from John's fingers and chews, purring happily. Her human is still hers. She settles in a ball of contentment.


	6. Chapter 6

There were drag marks. Something wet and dirty, and presumably heavy had been dragged across the floor, making little eddying trails in the carefully preserved dust. His brow furrowed in irritation. Really Mr Reese was going to have to do something.

As he unlocked the gate he became aware of a disgusting mess of feathers, some clearly bloodstained, lying in the corner. Bear leaned over to sniff.

Finch gently tugged the lead back, "laat het". Bear gave the sad little pile another sniff and then obediently left it.

Finch bent and released the dog, who bounded eagerly into the library, in search of his latest toy.

They were being watched, Harold had gotten used to the eyes. The stare of the predator. He glanced up. Heavy lidded blue eyes stared down at him, paws folded under the chest, the round striped face bearing a strong resemblance to the Cheshire Cat in his priceless illustrated Alice.

Finch pinned the errant feline with his most disapproving glare. Pie settled and favoured his master's master with the slow blink of a cat that didn't care. Human and feline held the stare for a moment. Finch hitched a shoulder. There was something impenetrable about Piewacket's smugness that irritated ever so slightly.

Now he was arguing with a cat. Finch rolled his eyes. The strange little menagerie had become part of their lives. Finch had never really thought of John as a cat person, but he realised after all this time together that it wasn't really just cats or dogs, but that John liked animals.

Ming had bonded so strongly with John, she paid very little attention to anyone else. Finch had gotten used to the enigmatic feline's arrival on the edge of his desk, the studying of the monitors and her uncanny ability to sense evil.

Pie seemed to spend his days hunting. The remains of his many trophies scattered around, left in places where Finch was sure to discover them. The mess of feathers was most likely one of Pie's many kills.

Finch shuddered again. The weekend retreats after the cast had come off John's leg, where Finch had arranged for them both to get some relaxation and time away from the city, Pie's hunting had taken on a whole new dimension. The sight of the large, feisty feline reversing slowly up the drive, dragging the newly deceased pheasant was quite something, as was Harold's realization that Pie had caught and killed the bird himself.

Birds of all shapes and sizes, rats and mice formed the majority of Pie's kills. The mouse tail left in Harold's brogue had prompted the irritated billionaire to try reason "please, stop." Pie switched from shoes to the shower stall.

Now this disgusting clump of feathers.

Finch sighed. He was going to have to take this distasteful matter up with Mr Reese again.

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Reese and Shaw entered the library in a less than convivial mood. The number had been an idiot, by even Leon Tao standards of idiocy, the day had been long, hard and rain-soaked. They hadn't wanted to work with each other, the undercover couple seeking marriage counseling was perhaps a little hackneyed, but it had worked.

"Shower." Said Shaw.

Reese shot her a glare, but backed down, figuring that second dibs gave him a chance to rough house a little with Bear, check Pie's latest stash places and give some attention to his lady before cleaning himself up.

He was about to cede the point but she was already walking away. Reese shrugged. He had worked with worse, but sometimes Shaw's suspicious nature made him irritable.

He turned his attention to Bear's ball, the canine quivering with anticipation and Reese tossed the ball away, the dog sunk lower and the quivering increased until Reese let him go with a swift command. As Bear bounded after his ball, Reese heard the sounds of feet headed in his direction. He looked up. Shaw, wrapped in a towel, holding something out.

"Cat." She said, in an unfriendly tone.

It was on the tip of Reese's tongue to say, no, he was pretty sure it was mouse, but a glance at her steely expression, and Harold's disapproving look burning a hole between his shoulder blades, Reese merely accepted the mouse tail that was being held out.

Shaw turned smartly on her heel and headed back to the shower, Reese glanced around for the nearest wastepaper basket, caught the full force of Harold's disapproving stare, and had the grace to look sheepish.

"Really Mr Reese." Finch's tone was a mite frosty.

Reese shrugged, and glanced up, Pie was settled on the top shelf between several volumes of what looked like a history of Egypt. Reese held up the tail for effect. Even waved it a little.

Pie yawned, and settled himself again with his front paws folded under his chest. His tongue polished his whiskers in satisfaction. Reese resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Pie was a cat, after all, the odd kill was inevitable.

Okay, Reese did have to admit that Pie's kills were many and varied, and messy. He needed to do something about that.

Reese sighed. Looked up at Pie again. "Couldn't you be more dog?"

Pie yawned and closed his eyes.

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The library was quiet. She had watched the woman leave. Then Harold and his faithful watchdog, and the Mallinois. _Walking the dog, how very domesticated_, _Harold… as a domestic creature… how ordinary_. She feels a little contemptuous. Harold could be anything that he wanted, he could have her, and he chose to be with his watchdog John, a Neanderthal if ever she saw one.

She slipped across the road, up to the door. A few minutes to pick the lock, slip inside, _so close to Harold_.

The second floor, the closed and locked gate. Just beyond, tantalizing glimpses of Harold's world. She gets her lock picks out again. Puts her hand on the lock.

The growl startles her. _But they went out with the dog_. She shrugs and turns her attention back to the gate. The lock springs open easily.

The growl comes again, louder this time, and from higher up than expected. Startled Root looks up.

She has enough time to register that it's a cat, a big one, before it opens its mouth wide in an evil hiss, a weird choking noise and disgusting stuff is raining down on her head, partially digested bits of something and yellowish sputum as the cat springs for her head.

She shrieks in fright, turns to try and run, slips on the smooth floor and lands in an ungainly heap, the breath knocked out of her.

She has no idea how long she lays there, dazed and disorientated. The cat is near, she can hear it growling, but she keeps her eyes screwed shut.

A hand takes hers, and she opens her eyes then. Harold and the big ex-soldier that he places such faith in are standing over her. Well Harold is, look of annoyance and utter distaste on his face. John is crouched down, he's holding her hand, his other hand comes down to cup her elbow, and he helps her get to her feet.

There's a disgusting stickiness in her hair. Something tumbles down from the top of her head, and Root shrieks and jumps, practically throwing herself into John's arms.

John rolls his eyes a little, but holds on, he really doesn't want her shrieking in his ear or leaping all over the place like a demented gazelle. He can't figure out how she got out of the hospital, but since the clothes she's wearing are a mixed bag of non-fitting items it's odds on that it wasn't official or through the front door.

He guides her down towards the bathroom, they'll clean her up and take her back again, and Harold Crane will do something about his poor demented niece, yet again.

There's a self-satisfied belch from above. John glances up, Pie is on the top shelf between the Egyptian history books again. John grins. The alarm system is perfectly adequate, but the unconventional greeting a little added extra. Finch is properly horrified, but even he can appreciate Pie's efforts.

"You did good." John says quietly. The blue eyes regard him for a moment, then close, and Pie begins to purr.


End file.
